The Truth
by everytimeyougo
Summary: "In the end, it's Bobby who tells her the truth." Post Season 2 finale.
1. Chapter 1

The Truth

In the end, it's Bobby who tells her the truth.

They put it off as long as they can, trying to respect J.R.'s desire for her to be spared the painful and sordid facts of his demise. He was very clear, according to Bum, that she wasn't to know anything other than the fact that he died loving her and wanting a reconciliation.

After all, it's the truth, as far as it goes.

"It's killing her, Uncle Bobby!" John Ross shouts, slamming a fist on his uncle's desk in frustration. "If she had opened that letter from him right away, she could have called and spoken to him one last time. The guilt, the what-ifs, she can't let them go!"

"And you think it would be better for her to know that J.R. was never going to have that dinner with her?" Bobby hisses, after glancing around to make sure his nephew's outburst hasn't attracted any undue attention. "You think that will make her feel better?"

"I don't think it could make her feel any worse!" John Ross takes a deep breath and visibly fights to control himself. "She's drinking, Uncle Bobby. Every night, I'm sure of it. We've got to do something. I can't lose her too!"

Bobby leans back in his chair and looks to the ceiling, raw pain etched across his face. The lines it's caused are permanent now, deep wrinkles in his forehead and around his mouth that speak volumes about loss and grief. He closes his eyes. Sue Ellen is his sister in every way that matters and if knowing the truth will help her, he owes her that much. She's alive; his brother is dead. His loyalty has to be with the living. "Okay," he says at last. "Goddamnit, okay. I'll talk to her."

Picking his phone up from his desk, he points it at his nephew, and adds, "But not until I talk to Bum. He went out on a long, slender limb for your father and he's got more to lose here than anyone. If he won't agree to her knowing, we can't tell her."

John Ross clenches his fists and abruptly paces from in front of Bobby's desk to the door and back. "Fine," he growls, "but I want to be there when you ask him. He needs to understand what this is doing to her."

"John Ross," Bobby begins, but the younger man interrupts, his voice pleading.

"Uncle Bobby, please. I need to be there."

Bobby looks up at his nephew from his seat behind his desk. The boy has so much of his father's slick charm, it's scary at times. But he's got his mother in there too, her tendencies toward drama, her emotional volatility, not yet tempered by age and experience, as Sue Ellen's have been.

He sighs. It's a risk, but one he's going to have to take. John Ross isn't going to give him any other choice. He holds up a finger, then brings up Bum's number on his phone. As it rings in his ear, he watches his nephew pace agitatedly from one end of the room to the other.

"Bum," he says at the other man's greeting. "Bobby Ewing. I need a few moments of your time; can you come by the office?"

* * *

Nephew and uncle wait in silence for the private investigator to arrive. Bobby takes the opportunity to read through his neglected emails, many of them from current and former business associates offering condolences on J.R.'s death. He can't help but think how his brother would have ridiculed the patently insincere expressions of sympathy with a short bark of laughter and a well-placed insult. He answers a couple, but most find a new home in his deleted items folder.

John Ross sits across from him, folded over in a guest chair, his head in his hands. When the knock at the door finally comes, he jumps in place and bites off an expletive.

"Come in," Bobby calls.

The door opens and Bum's scruffy face appears from around it. "Bobby. John Ross," he says as he enters the room and closes the door behind himself. "What can I do for you boys today?"

"Hey Bum. Come in; take a load off." John Ross pushes out the chair next to him with his foot.

Bobby shoots him a stern look, before addressing the newcomer. "Thanks for coming, Bum. I wanted to thank you again for everything you did for J.R. This family has asked far more from you than we had any right to…"

Bum holds up a hand, interrupting. "Begging your pardon, Bobby, but with all due respect, you've thanked me enough already. You didn't call me down here to do it again. What's this about?"

"We need to tell my momma the truth," John Ross says bluntly, folding his arms over his chest and slouching further in his chair.

"What? No. No way." Shaking his head, Bum starts to stand up. "J.R. didn't want her to know. I promised him."

"Look, I understand that, but please just hear us out," Bobby says.

After a beat, the investigator nods and remains seated.

"Sue Ellen is taking J.R.'s death extremely hard," Bobby explains. "I don't know how much J.R. told you about their marriage, but she had some issues with alcohol…"

"She was a damned drunk," John Ross interrupts. "And she's going to be again, if we don't do something to stop her."

"John Ross, please." Bobby turns back to Bum. "The issue seems to be the letter J.R. sent her. She didn't open it until the night before the funeral. As I understand it, when she received it, she thought it was some kind of attempt to manipulate her and she didn't want to play his game so she set it aside. Now, knowing what it said, and believing him to have been murdered only a few hours after she received it, she's got it in her head that she may have been able to save him somehow. That if she'd opened the letter and they had spoken about it, maybe he might have flown home early or something and Cliff wouldn't have had the opportunity to shoot him. Of course, we three know that wouldn't have happened, because Cliff didn't shoot him at all. We're hoping if we can relieve her misplaced guilt, she'll better be able to get past this and get her drinking back under control."

"She'd been sober for more than twenty years before he died," John Ross adds, straightening up in his seat. "J.R. probably never considered she'd fall off the wagon. He loved her; do you think he'd want to see her killing herself?"

The room falls silent and he three men stare at each other, each side attempting to force its opinion on the other through sheer force of will. It occurs to Bobby that if any of the three of them present were J.R. Ewing, this would be a much shorter process.

"Bobby, I've just seen the latest reports from…" The door opens and Sue Ellen walks in, her head down, reading from a file as she speaks. She trails off when she notices the other occupants of the room. "Oh. I'm sorry, I should have knocked. Hello Bum."

"Miz Sue Ellen." The investigator nods.

Noticing her son's clenched jaw, she looks from him to Bobby, to Bum, and back again. "Well now, it seems I've interrupted something. What's going on here?"

"Bum was just in the neighborhood," John Ross drawls, rising and walking away from the group to stand at the window behind Bobby's desk.

"Oh?" Sue Ellen asks, arching an eyebrow. "We aren't late paying our bill, are we, Bum?" She smiles but, Bobby notes, it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Lately, her smiles never do.

"Oh, no, ma'am. Nothing like that." The private investigator rises from his seat. "I'd best be on my way now."

"How are you doing today, Momma?" John Ross asks without turning around. Bum stops halfway to the door and he and Bobby exchange a quick glance as Sue Ellen looks to her son, her eyes narrowed at the apparent non-sequitur.

"I'm just fine, John Ross, why do you ask?"

"Sleep well last night?"

"John Ross," Bobby warns. No one acknowledges him.

"Very well, thank you. I appreciate your concern, John Ross, but it's misplaced." Sue Ellen's voice has taken on a sharp edge. This is clearly a conversation mother and son have had before and one she does not care to repeat.

John Ross turns around from the window to face his mother. "I'm just worried about you, Momma. You're looking a little rough around the edges."

Bobby is forced to silently agree. There are dark circles under her eyes and she's starting to look too thin. He wonders when she last ate. How had he not seen this before? She's slowly coming apart at the seams, and he'd been so caught up in his own grief he hadn't even noticed.

"John Ross!" she exclaims, looking pointedly at Bum and then back to her insolent son. "This is not the time!"

"So when will be the time, Momma? When are you going to admit you need help? Look, you're shaking."

And she is; the hand holding the folder quavers like she's standing in a windstorm.

The room is completely silent as Sue Ellen regards her own hand as though it belongs to a stranger. She looks helplessly at Bobby, and for just a brief second, in her eyes he sees the old Sue Ellen, his brother's sad and broken young wife, the one he always wanted to help, but never quite knew how.

Then he blinks, and she's gone.

"Shaking in anger, John Ross," she says coldly, slamming the folder down on Bobby's desk and stalking out the door, brushing by Bum as she goes.

The door slams shut behind her.

Bobby turns to face his nephew. "Just what the _hell_ was that supposed to accomplish?" he asks angrily.

"It was supposed to show Bum that my mother needs his help." John Ross says, rubbing his face with his hands. "Damn it!"

Bum nods. "And it did. That and the noseful of bourbon fumes I got when she walked by me. You're right; she needs to know the truth."


	2. Chapter 2

_How dare he? _Sue Ellen fumes as she strides back to her office. _How dare he talk to her like that? How dare he make such rude insinuations in front of a virtual stranger!_

She can only hope Bum, and Bobby as well, for that matter, didn't realise what her impertinent son had been driving at. It's no one else's concern if she's been having the occasional drink since J.R.'s passing. Heavens, it's been more than twenty years since she's had any kind of issue with alcohol. She's a different person now, and if she wants to unwind with a glass of bourbon at the end of a hard day, that's her business and hers alone.

Besides, it's not the same as before. When she drank then, she drank to numb herself to the pain of her life, to forget the casual cruelties that made up her marriage, or to gain the courage to do what needed to be done. She didn't enjoy it; it was a means to an end.

Now, she finds she enjoys the drink itself.

The taste of it reminds her of J.R.

Clearly though, she should never have shared her feelings about J.R.'s letter with John Ross. Some things are best kept private, even from one's children. Perhaps especially from one's children, when one's children are Ewings.

She reaches her office and hurries in, shutting the door behind her. Both the subject of that letter, and the man who wrote it, are never far from her mind, and now in her turmoil, they spring again to the forefront, bringing with them a telltale tightening of her throat. She leans against the door, raising a hand to her cover her mouth. Breathing slowly and evenly through her nose, she closes her eyes tightly and waits for the feeling to pass.

_I'm sorry, my darling. I'm so sorry_, she repeats over and over in her mind.

* * *

The cursor blinks cheerily, three words into the email she's begun to her assistant. _Could you please…?_ Please what, exactly, she has no idea. Whatever her request was going to be has disappeared into the ether she she's been staring at for the last ten minutes.

She gives up and clicks the red X to close the window. Whatever it was, it can't have been too earth-shatteringly important, if she can't even remember it now.

Shifting her gaze from her computer screen, she looks to the framed photograph on her desk – she and J.R., much younger, in happier times. At least, they look happy in the picture – she honestly can't remember what their status had been at the time. It was all so long ago, and her feelings for her then-husband changed seemingly with the wind in those days.

If only she'd known then what she knows now, maybe she would have tried just a little harder. Maybe they both would have. It might not have mattered, but she could do with fewer regrets.

Reaching over, she picks up the photograph and slides it closer to her, as she has countless times in the months since J.R.'s been gone. Sometimes she brings it just a little closer, then continues with her work. Sometimes she talks to him. Often she pours herself a little drink and lifts her glass in a toast.

She's trying very hard to not do that now.

"John Ross thinks I'm a drunk," she tells him, and in her head, she hears his reply.

_Is that a fact?_ he asks.

Pursing her lips, she nods, her head moving slowly side to side, then bobbing up and down. "I think he may be right," she admits in a whisper.

And in her mind, J.R. harrumphs in agreement. _Course he's right. You're fucking up, darlin'. Am I really worth all of this grief?_

Is he? Isn't the loss of any human life worthy of grief? Of course it is. And he was the love of her life. Her grief is justified, no matter what anyone says. She's coping as best she can.

_But, this isn't what I'd want for you,_ he admonishes.

"Well, you're not here, now are you?" Sudden anger flares and she wants to curse him, wants to slam the picture face down on the desk, or throw it across the room, but she doesn't.

She can't.

In her mind's eye, he shrugs, seemingly oblivious to her turmoil. _I would be if I could be. You know that, darlin'._

She doesn't, of course, because she had never asked. Why hadn't she asked?

"I should have called you," she blurts. "I should have opened the goddamned letter as soon as I got it and I should have called you."

And there it is. She reaches down and touches the handle to her bottom desk drawer.

This is a recurrent theme, and J.R., in death as he never was in life, is endlessly patient with her.

_What would that have solved?_ he asks, like he always does when her thoughts start down this path.

"Well, you would have known my answer, for one thing."

_I knew, Sue Ellen. I knew you loved me. I've always known that._

"Yes, but you didn't know I'd be willing to admit it." How could he, when she hadn't yet admitted it to herself?

_When have you known me to ask a question I didn't already know the answer to? I knew. You made your decision the night you kissed me on the cheek and invited me in for tea. You didn't know it yet, but I surely did._

"Would you have come home right away if I asked you to?" she asks, getting to the heart of the matter.

He scoffs._ Now does that sound like me?_

It doesn't, of course, but that doesn't eliminate the possibility. And it's that possibility that keeps her up at night. It's that possibility she's been trying to drown for months now, but the damned thing just won't die. Her hand drifts back to the bottom drawer.

_Don't do this to yourself, honey. Nothing you did or didn't do would have changed anything. It was my time, is all._ The voice in her mind is sad, so sad it brings tears to her eyes.

"Nothing I did or didn't do would have changed a thing," she repeats in a whisper. She wants to believe, oh how she wants to believe.


	3. Chapter 3

He could use a drink himself before attempting this conversation, and it's only his respect for his sister-in-law that keeps him from unstopping the bottle. After all, how can he try to deprive her of her liquid crutch while he's limping around on one of his own?

As he leaves his office and walks toward hers, he attempts, yet again, to mentally script what he's going to say. How, exactly, is he going to be able to explain all this to her, when no matter how he phrases it in his mind, he can't find a way to keep the words from screaming, "_J.R. never intended to come back to you."_

That's not what he wants her to hear, because while it's true as far as it goes, he doesn't think his brother's deception was meant as yet another betrayal. Instead it seems to him that it was meant as an act of contrition, an attempt to make things right in the only way that remained to him: by leaving his love with a hastily-constructed fantasy to comfort her after he was gone.

Was it the right choice? Maybe. Probably not. But his brother, for all his masterful plans and larger-than-life gestures, was, after all, just a man. A man who made mistakes; a man whose actions sometimes had unintended consequences. And a man who had reached the end of his life and found himself left with more regrets than time to address them. It seems to Bobby that he should be forgiven for not foreseeing the obvious flaw in his plan to spare Sue Ellen some pain and torment. The flaw being, of course, that she had just as many regrets as he did.

John Ross stands in his open doorway on the other side of the office, looking worn-down and sombre. Bobby nods to him and receives a nod in return before the younger man steps away from his door and retreats back into his office. It had been surprisingly easy to convince his nephew to let him handle this one alone. He supposes the little boy inside the man has lost enough already. He doesn't need to see what this information might do to his momma.

And then there's the fact that J.R. and Sue Ellen's complicated relationship remains largely a mystery to their only child. He'd been barely into double-digits when his parents had finally split for good and it's doubtful he remembers much from their marriage. As volatile as it had been, both J.R. and Sue Ellen had been careful to shield their son from the worst of it, and children are self-centred at the best of times. John Ross had been no exception, and Bobby is certain he was never aware of half of what had transpired between his parents back then. And between the wanderlust that had made up most of his nephew's twenties, J.R.'s frequent hospitalizations, and the years Sue Ellen spent abroad, he would have witnessed very few interactions between his parents in the decades since then, at least not until this past year or so. Discovering the depths of their feelings for each other after all this time had probably come as quite a shock to him.

Conversely, it hadn't surprised Bobby in the least.

Sue Ellen's door is closed, as it has been all day. He raises his hand and knocks.

* * *

The photograph of her and J.R. is back on the corner of her desk, and she is once again attempting to compose an email to her assistant when the knock comes at the door. Stifling a sudden flash of irritation at the intrusion, she checks that her bottom desk drawer is fully closed and then reluctantly calls out for her visitor to come in.

The door swings open and Bobby enters, striding purposefully though the door and then closing it behind himself. From the determined, but apprehensive, look on his face, she gathers he's expecting this to be a difficult conversation. And isn't _that_ just wonderful, she thinks. Just what she needs to make this day complete: a lecture from baby brother. She wants to roll her eyes, but manages to refrain.

She loves Bobby; she does. He's the closest thing she's ever had to a brother and there were times he'd been the only friend she had, but it's never been a bond that's come easy. Their respective relationships with the man that connected them had been far too perilous for them to ever have been anything but temporary allies. J.R. would never have stood for it. Her friendship with Bobby was always the first thing sacrificed whenever she tried to stitch together the shredded fabric of her marriage. She'd turned on him often and with little provocation, and as long ago as that was, it seems like he's never forgotten it. Some days he approaches her as if he doesn't know whether she'll hug him or throw something at him.

Some days, she doesn't know herself.

"Bobby," she says by way of a greeting, forcing a smile onto her face.

He nods awkwardly and pulls out the chair in front of her desk. "Listen, Sue Ellen, about this morning…"

She raises her hand to stop him. "Bobby, I'm fine. I promise you, I'm fine. John Ross has his Daddy's way of getting under my skin, that's for certain, but neither he, nor you, has anything to worry about. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

She starts to rise, not having anywhere to go, but intent on escape nonetheless, when Bobby reaches across the desk and places a warm, gentle hand on her forearm.

"Sue Ellen. You forget who you're talking to. I was there, through it all, remember? Even after all this time, I recognize the signs. You're in trouble."

She opens her mouth to continue her objections, but he doesn't give her the chance.

"But that's not why I'm here," he continues.

She slumps back in her seat, suddenly too exhausted to even try and evade whatever Bobby has in store for her. It's been a long few months, the longest of her life, and she's tired. Just tired.

"So why _are_ you here, Bobby?" she asks dully. Maybe she should just tell him everything. Tell him about the sleepless nights spent curled up on her couch with her wedding albums and her bottle of bourbon. Tell him about the clothing stolen from J.R.'s room that is now folded neatly in her dresser drawer. Tell him about the prescription for Valium her doctor wrote her that she hasn't dared fill, for fear of what she might do with it.

Tell him about the constant, never-ending conversation with J.R. occurring only in her head.

It's Bobby; he would help her. It would be so nice to let someone help her.

"I don't know how else to do this," he's saying from across the desk and she wonders if she's missed something while she was daydreaming. Do what?

"It's going to come as a shock, and I can't think of any way to make it easier on you. I wish I could." She's more listening closely now, because Bobby looks so sad. And so guilty.

"Bobby, what is going on?" she asks, suspicion rising.

He shakes his head and pulls from his shirt pocket a crumpled and creased square of folded paper. "Here," he says. "It's best he tells you himself."

With a sense of foreboding, she accepts the paper from his shaking hand. As she unfolds it, she can hear J.R. in her head telling her everything is about to change.


	4. Chapter 4

Her eyes don't leave his as she unfolds the letter, and already within them he can see the shimmer of unshed tears. It kills him to see her like this, unsteady and confused, so unlike the cool and confident woman she's become over the last twenty-five years. _Please God, let this be the right thing to do._ If this information makes things even worse for her, he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to forgive himself.

Laying the letter flat on the desk, she painstakingly smooths the wrinkles from the paper, and then runs her fingers over the familiar bold handwriting. He gets the impression that she is carefully avoiding focusing on what the words say but is instead envisioning the hand who wrote them.

Finally, she blinks and as the first tear escapes her eye and rolls down her cheek, she begins to read.

He knows the instant the full implication of what she's reading hits her. She gasps and her eyes close, her mouth moving almost as if in prayer, though she makes no sound. He wants to reach out and comfort her somehow, but as is so often the case with her, he finds himself frozen, not knowing what would be welcome and what would be seen as intrusion.

"He wasn't ever going to come home," she says eventually. "He knew it all along." Her voice is barely above a whisper and the tears are flowing freely down her face, but her tone is impassive.

He nods, though he's not even certain she's speaking to him at all.

Her hand rises to cover her mouth, but not quite in time to hold in the sob that emerges.

"Sue Ellen," he begins, but she shakes her head sharply. _Don't_, her eyes warn. _Don't talk, don't sympathise, please just don't._ Nothing he could say to her now would make a damned bit of difference in the horror she's feeling.

As he watches, a violent shudder grabs hold and shakes her like a dog with a ragdoll. She curses softly and spins her chair around until she's facing away from him, grabbing a few tissues from a box on her credenza.

For long minutes all he can hear is the sound of his sister-in-law's softly muffled weeping.

_We've broken her, brother_, he thinks. _We've finally ruined her. Oh God, what have I done?_

But when she turns around again, her pleasantly vacant Miss Texas mask is firmly in place. If not for her badly streaked mascara and red-tinged eyes, he would never know anything is wrong. Picking up the letter, she leans back in her seat and reads it again. Her face remains impassive and he realises she's completely disconnected herself from her emotions in order to properly process what she's reading.

Coughing once, she sets the letter down on the desk.

"Bobby, I'm afraid I don't quite understand," she says. "If Cliff didn't shoot him, who did?"

He sighs and rubs his face with his hand. "Does it really matter?" he asks her. "The shooter was just a tool, an extension of J.R.'s own arm. Nothing more. Now, if you really want to know, I'll tell you; there will be no more secrets in this family, I promise you that. But, Sue Ellen, are you sure you want to know?"

She stares at him for what seems like a very long time, her expression no longer vacant, but thoughtful.

"I…no. I don't suppose I do," she says at last, sliding her chair backward and standing. "Now, if you don't mind, Bobby. I…I think I'd like to be alone for a while."

"I thought you'd want to talk about all of this," he says, confused.

"I will. Soon. But not just now. Please Bobby, I need some time."

He doesn't like it, but there's really nothing else he can do, so he gets up, nods once, and leaves her alone.

* * *

"J.R., what have you done?" she whispers to the photograph on the corner of her desk.

And for the first time since his death, there is no answering voice in her mind.

He is silent.

She is abandoned.

* * *

She drives home on autopilot, the Porsche roaring along the highway and into her quiet, tree-lined neighbourhood of its own accord, delivering its mistress home safely, if not soundly.

The questions fly through her mind, tumbling end over end, crashing into each other, with one leading to the next, and that one to another, but there are no answers. There will never be answers, not really, not ones she knows to be true and not just wishful thinking, and that may be the hardest thing of all to take.

The question that resounds above all the others: Why? Why hadn't he told her? Told her all of it? Any of it? Why?

She's sitting in her living room, drink in hand, the lights dim and her wedding albums unopened on the coffee table, when the doorbell rings.

It's Bobby, of course, or maybe John Ross. Why can't they leave her alone? She momentarily debates not answering, but her car is outside and she knows they won't leave without seeing her. Reluctantly she rises, not even bothering to set down her drink. What does it matter now?

But when she approaches the door, the form on the other side belongs to neither her brother-in-law, nor her son.

"Bum," she says as she opens the door and steps back to allow him entrance. "What are you doing here?"

"Miz Sue Ellen," the investigator says, removing his hat as he steps inside. "I'm sorry for the intrusion. "

She shrugs. What does it matter? "It's fine. Can I get you a drink?" she asks, rolling her eyes at the memory of the silly girl she was this morning, angry at John Ross for airing dirty laundry in front of strangers. It was all just so pointless.

"Oh, no thank you, ma'am. I won't be staying. I just came to bring you this." He pulls an envelope from his inside coat pocket.

"Oh God," she says. "Not another one."


	5. Chapter 5

He chuckles, holding it out to her. "Boss ain't ever gonna let anyone forget about him."

"Like anyone ever could," she replies, throat tightening. She accepts the envelope from his outstretched hand.

He nods in agreement. "I know I never will." He pauses awkwardly, glancing at her glass, though evidently he decides to mind his own business. "Well, I'll leave you to it," is all he says. As he turns to leave, she follows him out the door and watches him thoughtfully from her doorstep.

"Bum," she calls when he's halfway down the walk.

He turns around to face her, eyebrows raised.

"Thank you," she says. "For what you…for helping him. Thank you. I'm glad he wasn't alone." Because she knows; of course she knows.

He nods again, smiling sadly, and continues down her walkway. Only when he disappears around the corner of the house does she go back inside, close the door, and return to the living room.

Setting the envelope in the centre of her coffee table, she sits on the edge of the couch and regards it cautiously. It looks exactly like the other envelope, the one she has upstairs in the drawer of her nightstand where she can read it every night before bed. This one, unlike that one, has nothing written across the front of it. She doesn't know what that means or if it means anything at all.

Leaving the envelope for now, she sets down her drink and picks up one of the photo albums from the table, flipping through it until she finds the picture she wants: she and J.R. beaming at the camera on the occasion of their second wedding. It's the same image that kept her company the first time she did this, the night before his funeral.

Brushing her fingers across his face, she then raises them to her lips, kisses them, and presses them back to the picture. Sighing deeply, she sets the album down and picks up the letter. "Well, my darlin', let's see what other surprises you have in store for me."

She rips the envelope open and pull out the contents. The paper is creased and crumpled and the handwriting is messy, but still identifiably J.R.'s. She begins to read.

_My Darling Sue Ellen, _

_If you're reading this letter it's because you have somehow come to know the truth behind my demise. I couldn't let that happen without leaving you some kind of explanation, so I left this letter with Bum to deliver to you if the need ever arose._

_I've come up with a plan to protect you and John Ross and the rest of the family after I'm gone. I assume if you're reading this, you've been told that part so I won't repeat it here, but I hope you can understand that it wasn't kept from you because I didn't trust you. That couldn't be further from the truth. I've gone back and forth about what to do a hundred times, but in the end I think what I owe you more than anything is a happy ending. I promised you one so many times and it always went to hell. So that's what I tried to do with my other letter, or at least as close as I could get, given the circumstances. If you're reading this, guess I've failed again. Maybe it was a mistake from the start; I don't know anymore. _

_It may be better for everyone that you know what's going on. You're smart, Sue Ellen. I trust that you more than anyone will know the right time to implement my plan to keep Barnes under control. I'm confident the evidence I've arranged will hold up, but I don't think it'll have to be tested. Just knowing it's out there should be enough to keep that weasel away from our family._

_When the doc told me I had cancer, he said I had a year to get my affairs together. My first order of business was to put things right between you and me. It was something I'd left too long already. But to do it right, you couldn't know I was dying. I wanted to make amends and I needed for you to accept them and take me back on my own merits and not because you felt sorry for an old man with little breathing time left._

_Then, when_ _I thought when I had your earned your forgiveness, I was going to tell you everything so I could spend my final days in the place I've always been happiest - your arms. You have to believe it was never my intention to leave you without saying goodbye. Never. But, darling, I'm all out of time. I want to hold on, to finish what I've started, I want that so badly, but the pain has become too much. I can't hardly walk. I'm having trouble breathing. It's too late and you have no idea how I wish it hadn't come to this. I only hope you can see that what I'm doing instead is for you as much as anyone._

_I think, or at least I hope, that I've been able to earn your trust and maybe a bit of your love back little by little over the last year. The time we've spent together recently has been more precious to me than you'll ever know. I'm sorry you didn't get your happy ending, darling. I love you. I guess I never said that enough. I'm sorry for that too._

_Don't waste too much time mourning me. Life is too short. Enjoy all the time you've got left. Hug our boy for me every now and then and give him a kick in the ass from the old man when he needs it. Tell our grandchildren about me, but only the good stuff. Tell them I would have loved them and that I'd be proud of them no matter what. And know that even though I probably won't make it to heaven, if there is any way to see you again in the next life, I will surely find it._

_Yours in death as I always was in life,_

_J.R._


	6. Chapter 6

She's openly sobbing by the time she reaches the end of the letter, her eyes so blurred with tears she can barely see the page in front of her. Setting the letter down in her lap, she wipes her eyes with shaking fingers. Instinctively she recognises that contained within this letter is, at long last, the whole truth. And not only the truth about J.R.'s death, but the truth about his life, his love for his family, his unique sense of pride and honor, and his complicated feelings for her, their past, and the future they almost had. She knows without doubt that the thoughts and emotions shared in this letter are the most honest he has ever been with her.

And now, she understands. It's not the ending she would have chosen for him, for them, and she knows the image of him bleeding on a filthy hotel room floor is one that will never leave her mind, and will never cease to steal her breath in pain, but at least now she understands. He died the way he lived – on his own terms. How could she ever have believed it to be any other way?

She doesn't know what prompted Bobby to finally tell her the truth about what happened in Mexico, but she is so grateful he did. If he hadn't, Bum may never have given her this final letter. She would have spent the rest of her life wondering about the last hours of J.R.'s life and whether a phone call from her could have changed his destiny. She knows now it wouldn't have changed a thing. She still wishes she'd called, of course she does, but now it's a regret she can live with.

The tears, however, are still coming. Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply, concentrating on the feeling of air filling her lungs. When she exhales, it's shaky and ragged, but she repeats the process again and then again, and after a few times it comes easier.

Calmer now, she reopens her eyes and instantly they're drawn to the photo album lying open on the coffee table. J.R. in his tuxedo grins up at her. Carefully not looking at the adjacent glass of bourbon, she pulls the album into her lap and sighs.

"I wish I could have been there," she tells him, running her finger up and down the picture.

_I know you do, darlin'. I do too, but sometimes things just don't work out the way we want them to._

"I know." She nods and bites her lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. "I miss you so much."

_Well, of course you do._

A smile tugs at the corner of her lip. "Cocky bastard," she says.

His laughter rings in her ears. _Oh, you know it._

She smiles and flips the page, finding another version of the same wedding photo, though in this one they're looking at each other instead of at the camera. She had been so happy and full of hope that day.

_We can't keep doing this, honey, _J.R. in her mind says._ You need to get on with your life. John Ross needs you, and so will that bride of his, because you know we gave that boy one hell of a bad example of how to be married. And the company needs you too. You've always had more of a head for business than Bob, and the boys don't have the experience yet. And then there's you, Sue Ellen. You deserve so much more than nights on the couch with tears, booze and ancient history._

She nods, because she knows all of this, but…"J.R., I don't know if I'm ready for you to go yet."

_Darlin'. I'm already gone. _

Tears prick at the back of her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. She's been crying long enough. "Will you still be here if I need you?" she asks.

She doesn't hear his answer, but she feels it in her heart.

_Always._

* * *

He's at his desk wearily reviewing financial statements when she arrives at the office Monday morning. It's early, not yet eight, and though she's wearing dark glasses and holding a large cup of coffee, she's smiling, her entire demeanor a breath of fresh air on a dreary day. He watches as she stops to exchange a few words with the receptionist, laughing and pushing her glasses to the top of her head. The other woman hands her a stack of pink messages and she turns in his direction.

Their eyes catch and he lifts a tentative hand in greeting which she returns with a nod and a quick wiggle of fingers as she continues on to her office. Looking back down at his papers, he shakes his head, smiling to himself.

She looks good.

John Ross enters his office from the other direction, walking with his head turned, watching his mother open her office door.

"I dropped by her place last night," he says, falling into a chair. "She was just getting in from an AA meeting."

"She told you that?" Bobby asks, surprised.

"Yep. Apologized for worrying me and told me she's going to be okay. She's getting things back under control."

"And you believe her?"

John Ross shrugs. "I have no reason not to. I guess we'll see. She sounded good though, Uncle Bobby. More like herself than she's been in a long time. I think we did the right thing, telling her."

He nods. "I think so too, John Ross. I'm sure your father's intentions were good, but families shouldn't have those kinds of secrets. Did she talk to you at all about what I told her?"

His nephew shakes his head. "No. I tried to bring it up, apologize for keeping it from her, but she didn't want to hear it. She said she knew everything she needed to and there was no point in rehashing it all. That it's time to move on with the business of living. That's what my daddy would want."

Bobby nods slowly. "John Ross, I think she's right about that."

* * *

In the office across the room, Sue Ellen looks to the picture on her desk and smiles before she turns on her computer and begins her day's work. She has a lot to do today.

The End.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, that's it. I hope you enjoyed the story. Thank so much to everyone for the reviews, follows and faves. They really do make my day.


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